


For All the Things You Wished You'd Done

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Series: Witcher Winters [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Candles, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gift Giving, Gloves, Happy Ending, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, Like too much scents and smells, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Relationship, Reunions, Scents & Smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Geralt finds a candle that reminds him of Jaskier. Jaskier finds a pair of gloves that remind him of Geralt. So what if they're not travelling together anymore? It'll take more than a mountain fight and some distance to keep these two from pining over each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Winters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038222
Comments: 19
Kudos: 242





	For All the Things You Wished You'd Done

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to "I've Decided To Challenge Myself To Write Many Jaskier Fics In The Month Of The December And Also They're Only Vaguely December Themed." That makes sense, right?
> 
> This started with the prompt "Gift Giving" and ended up with about 7000 words of Geralt thinking about how Jaskier smells. A smell, by the way, that has no basis in canon whatsoever, I just needed to come up with something other than a flower because tbh I don't see Jaskier smelling like flowers, haha. Anyway, yeah. It's just a little weird.
> 
> This gets very poetic and pretentious very quickly. Hopefully future works of mine this month will have a touch more plot. Enjoy!

Geralt’s the first to say he doesn’t need anyone. He’s the first to complain about company, the first to declare an end to a friendship before it can start. Humans can be careless with where they place their time and emotions. Witchers are all well and good until the novelty wears off and they’re in the middle of nowhere with a mutant as their only companion. 

Jaskier, though— Well. Part of Geralt had almost believed that Jaskier wouldn’t be like that. 

Then, again, perhaps it wasn’t the fun that Jaskier grew too accustomed to—

_ If life could grant me one blessing… _

— perhaps it was just the cruelties, shouldering them until his back began to break from the effort, until he had no choice but to turn away and disappear down the trails of some gods-forsaken mountain.

Geralt had almost thought of running after him, the apology bitter in the back of his throat but still there.  _ I’m sorry _ , he could say. And Jaskier would shrug and smile and pluck a few strings on his lute. All would be forgiven.

Or, at least, that’s how Geralt likes to imagine it would go. But, fuck, he knows as well as anyone that it’s wrong to pretend that Jaskier could be so predictable. Jaskier could just as easily shove his own barbed words into Geralt’s chest. Butcher, mutant, monster— Geralt’s heard it all before but not from Jaskier, not like that, and he doesn't think he’d survive if he did. 

So, time passes. Life goes on. Geralt’s apology goes stale and he faces each day with the realization that Jaskier isn’t coming back. 

Whatever. He’s a bit too old for such romantic dreams, anyway.

(but there’s a part of him that whispers it’s not fair, it’s not fair how much he needs Jaskier, only realizing this when he’s gone. It’s not fair that he doesn’t want him until he loses him, that Jaskier’s departure is more akin to a cork popping off a bottle, leaving Geralt with all these feelings bubbling up, oozing out, drying on his skin with the sickly sweet scent of something he should have savored and—)

Geralt turns away from these thoughts. If his time with Jaskier is over, then let it be over. 

“The trouble is,” he says to Roach, all the same, leading her into some unnamed town on the edge of the mountains, “that I’m not able to forget things so easily. And he did try his best to be memorable, didn’t he?”

Roach huffs and nods into his shoulder. Geralt pretends it’s in agreement.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The scent reaches him before he’s fully entered the shop— plums and rich wine, the sweet-sharp promise of drunkenness and joy, the swirl of alcohol without the bitter aftertaste. Geralt pauses with a sharp breath, something cool sliding down his spine as he prepares to enter the shop. 

He's not ready to face Jaskier. 

Though, as he looks around the small supply shop, he wonders if he's finally lost his mind. The area's empty but for the shopkeeper, leaning tiredly against a wall.

The disappointment lasts only long enough for Geralt to shove it away. He moves heavily, though, as he walks towards the more necessary things in the store. Ropes and dried rations, water flasks and gloves. The mountain—  _ the  _ mountain, his mind unhelpfully emphasizes— is a few weeks’ travel behind him but the rest of the range still extends throughout this part of the kingdom, smaller hills but just as treacherous to traverse without the right gear. It’ll be easier, though, without the added strain of a certain human, prone to tripping and chasing after butterflies, distracted and whimsical and—

The path Geralt’s chosen leads away from the coast. Jaskier said he’d get the story from the others; they’ll keep him safe in the places that Geralt can’t. Jaskier’s best protected by Geralt’s acquaintances, but never by Geralt himself. If he had stayed at Geralt’s side, the pains he’s faced so far would only grow. Geralt can forgive himself his harsh words but never the danger he’s introduced into Jaskier’s life. If life could give him one blessing, it’d be for some damned good to come out of the mess he’s made. 

Geralt grunts to himself, reaching for a pair of gloves. His own pair have grown thin with use, their leather scuffed and tearing at the palm. It’ll take a good portion of his coin but it’ll be worth it as the year descends into the cooler months, snow and ice interrupting the warmer air. He sighs, mentally tallying the contracts he’ll need to take to make up the price.

As he breathes in, though, that scent appears again. Plums. Wine. The red flush of joyful cheeks, the glimmer of mischief in cornflower blue eyes.  _ Jaskier _ .

Without permission, Geralt’s body turns. His hand hovers over something else, reaching for whatever's toying with him in this store.

As he draws it from its place on the shelf, Geralt notes that the candle isn’t as exact as he’d first believed. Where Jaskier’s scent is warm with emotion, this one’s cool with wax and oils. Where Jaskier’s bursting and blooming, his smell changing with his thoughts and moods, this candle keeps still, a brief burst of bard caught beneath the wick. All the same, Geralt breathes deeply, nearly choking on the thickness of the scent. 

For a moment, it’s almost like Jaskier’s back with him. 

The shopkeeper makes no comment as Geralt places the candle with his other purchases, the gloves forgotten behind him. Already, the small strands of the candle’s scent curl around him, thin fingers clinging to his wrist and arms as he carries it outside, packing it into one of Roach’s bags.

It mixes with the lingering scent of Jaskier, his handprints all over Geralt’s life. His smell— not the candle’s, not a memory’s— sticks to Geralt’s clothes. It sneaks inside, whispering and giggling against his skin. It reminds him of Jaskier’s total devastation of Geralt’s world, his easy intrusion into his life and mind and heart—

Geralt just barely refrains from pulling the candle up to his nose, leaving it trapped in Roach’s bags. 

If Jaskier cannot be with him, at least Geralt can have this. 

He tries not to imagine what Jaskier would say. He tries not to imagine what Jaskier would think.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The candle falls from his bag as he’s unpacking at an inn. For a moment, it’s covered with the smell of Roach, of the road, of potions and leather. Geralt takes his time lifting it from the mess of his belongings, peeling it gently from the ground, holding his breath as he takes it into his hands. His thumb brushes the wax, a pale shade with the slightest tinge of pink beneath the surface— the shade of Jaskier’s cheeks when he blushes. Geralt swallows thickly, almost feeling guilty at the thought— the memory— of Jaskier’s face. Gods, but he’d seen that flush so often, sometimes so deeply pink that Geralt was convinced the bard had been dropped into a bushel of strawberries. So many times, he’d been tempted to tip Jaskier’s face towards him, tempted to press his tongue to the heated skin, see if he could still taste summer in the warmth that pulsed under his fingers there. So many times, he’d forced himself to turn away.

Like now— the candle deposited onto the room’s small nightstand. Unlit, the scents of plum and wine slowly infiltrate the space. Again, Geralt feels the difference, senses the absence of something  _ more _ , but his foolishness ignores this. He tricks himself; any moment, surely, Jaskier will swagger through that door in his favorite doublet, hip cocked out as he announces their plans for the evening.

_ “I’ll pay for dinner if you watch me play _ ,” he’d say, like he’s said a thousand times before.

_ “Pay for my ale, too _ ,” Geralt would respond,  _ “and you have a deal.” _

These memories, though, are overwritten by the out of tune playing by some other bard below him, outdone by the fishy smell of whatever’s cooking in the kitchens. With each second, Geralt’s reminded of how a world feels when Jaskier’s not with him. The emptiness around him is so obvious it might as well shine.

Geralt shuts the windows, growling at the small threads of light peeking through. It will keep him up a few extra hours— that, and the raucous singing in the attached bar downstairs— but he’s too exhausted to fix either of these issues himself. He doesn’t bother ignoring the fact that, usually, it was Jaskier who’d hang a cloak over the cracks in the window, hiding the last bits of light from Geralt’s oversensitive eyes; it was Jaskier who’d sit by the bed and strum soft chords, drowning out everything else until, finally, it was safe to sleep.

Now, though, Geralt’s aware of everything. The blankets are rough, overwashed. Mold grows in the corner of the mattress with a sick aroma. There’s no one in the rooms beside him— no one would dare sleep so near a witcher— but he can still hear the couple fucking further down the hall, can hear the bard downstairs trip over his own feet. He stretches out and feels the largeness of the bed. 

The candle on the nightstand exhales a steady stream of plum and wine. It sighs and Geralt greedily breathes the scent in. This inn is dirty and depressing. Jaskier would never stay here. The candle, though, allows Geralt to pretend otherwise.

He shuts his eyes and focuses on the candle’s scent until it covers the rest of the room, a shadow or a shield. Geralt rests in it, falls into it with no intentions of standing back up. He could rot here in this plum-and-wine scent, slowly sinking until he can’t tell candle from bard. 

The starlight pushing through the windows seems to dim to a grey shade, useless in the face of the candle’s aura. Though the wax is nothing but a weak imitation, Geralt finds Jaskier’s name settling gently against his tongue; he shuts his lips, keeping it to himself even as he drifts to sleep.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

If someone had told Jaskier that losing his muse and best friend and greatest unrequited love interest would result in such a fucking dry spell— in both lovers  _ and  _ songwriting— he’d have never picked such a stubborn muse in the first place. Better to crumble into obscurity than to waste twenty-two years of his life on an asshole who, apparently, doesn’t give a shit about him. Daily, Jaskier curses Geralt’s name.

Nightly, though? Well, no one need know about his tears if he never admits to them.

What’s the point of all of it, anyway? On the way down the mountain, the dwarves happily questioned Jaskier about his fame and then, to each other, wondered if he truly deserves it. Jaskier had tuned them out before he could take too much offense. No, perhaps he doesn’t deserve to make a living off of someone else’s stories. But what in his life is there to wax poetic about? His broken heart? His years of useless pining? The longing to be loved and appreciated and wanted? He’d sooner hang himself with his lute strings before exposing himself like that. Besides, writing about his want for love doesn’t guarantee he’ll find it. More likely, he’d become some romantic figure— an unwanted bard, cast aside and cursed to sing about his lover’s lovers until death takes pity upon him.

Well, that’s an interesting idea for a ballad, at least. Jaskier pauses on his way into town— on his own now that the dwarves had run off to seek other treasures— and writes the idea down. Once done, he tucks his journal away and looks around.

It’s a small town— dusty and half-abandoned— but he’s been wandering the mountain area for the better part of a month, aimless and lost. He’s certain he passed by the same tree eight times— a tree he’d named Greg upon the sixth time passing it. Not that he’d ever admit to that bout of insanity should anyone ask how he finally emerged from the trails and into civilization. Instead, he turns to a small family passing by and asks about the nearest supply shop. He doesn’t intend to stay here for long but, if he wishes to leave, he’ll need to restock. Somehow, the bit of rations and supplies he’d taken in his haste to leave Geralt don’t seem likely to last him much more than another two days.

As he follows the family’s directions to the town’s only shop, Jaskier tries to clean himself up a bit. Gods, he can smell his own sweat drying on his clothing, and he’s dirtier than a selkiemore’s corpse. Not to mention the terrible state of his nails. He’d cracked a few of them collecting firewood a few nights back, and the rest have layers of dirt caked beneath them. This is a new low; what he’d give to be picking bread from the floor once again. 

Soon enough, he finds the shop— a small thing with a cute little window advertising his favorite oils and perfumes. There’s a small hole over the door that would let the rain in but, well, Jaskier can’t judge. He, it seems, has a life that lets the rain in.

So, it’s with a wide smile and a proud introduction that he steps inside the shop, grinning at the shopkeeper’s surprise. 

“The White Wolf’s bard?” He asks. Jaskier’s swagger dips slightly into defiance.

“My own bard, actually,” he says, kicking his toe against the floor to shift the pebble that had gotten into his boot a few hours back. “Or do I seem like someone who needs to be attached to a witcher at all times in order to survive?”

The shopkeeper pointedly says nothing. Jaskier ignores the implication, turning to the items strewn around him. The oils are a bit expensive, the perfumes and soaps twice so. Jaskier grimaces, feeling his coin purse as he debates between a rose shampoo and a pine shampoo. His eyes glance over at the candles, as well. He’d never had need for a candle while with Geralt— always on the go, and usually outside— so perhaps now would be the time to properly indulge. If he puts the soaps away, he can afford the candle and enough rations to get him to the next town. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, dropping the vials back into their place with the same carelessness that Geralt had dropped him.

As he turns, though, something else catches his eye. 

Where has he seen gloves like that before? 

Jaskier stills, his hand falling back towards his side. His lips rub together in hesitant thoughtfulness. 

The gloves are dark leather, good quality, the kind Geralt would buy if he passed through here. 

“Don’t those seem a bit big for you?” The shopkeeper asks as Jaskier reaches out for them. His fingers just barely brush the leather.

“I wouldn’t be getting them for me,” Jaskier says. “It’s, uh. A friend likes gloves like these, is all.”

Jaskier plucks them from their place before he can talk himself out of it. They’re a bit heavier than the ones Geralt wears but Jaskier holds tightly to them all the same. If he allows his mind to wander, he can almost see Geralt wearing them.

Jaskier buys them and his rations-- the oils and candles left behind. The gloves stand out against his brightly colored outfit when he shoves them into his waistband, too impatient to unpack his bags and find a place for them there. His fingers brush against the leather every so often, teasing him with the memory of Geralt walking by his side. Jaskier’s hands tremble softly when he finally gives in, wrapping his hand fully around them and tugging them back out, mere moments after hiding them away. Later, he’ll pack the things away and forget about them; he’ll feel foolish in a day or two, ashamed and stupid and embarrassed by his own emotions. Already, the weight of his idiocy rests heavily against his chest. He takes a deep breath but it does nothing to ease it away.

As he walks, Jaskier tries to think of anything other than the stupid gloves. The more he shoves it away, however, the stronger it returns. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Geralt had never understood the inherent intimacy of wound care until Jaskier had crashed into his life and redefined it— as he did everything else. The warmth of Jaskier’s hands on his body as he cleaned out cuts or felt for broken bones, the comfort of his breath on Geralt’s skin as he’d lean in closer for a better look. Geralt wincing, moving away, only to have Jaskier force himself back—  _ you’re not getting away from me that easily, not until I’ve patched this up _ . Jaskier’s scent sticking to him, merging with his skin the longer they sat so close together. Jaskier’s fingers brushing Geralt’s hair out of the way. A blanket or cloak pressed over Geralt at the end of it, tucked in like a child. Jaskier’s hands never once leaving his even as he drifted to sleep— Geralt could trace the constellations of his calluses with his eyes closed. There was something about the calluses that Geralt found comforting, the proof that Jaskier’s not so soft or unmarred. 

Times like this, Jaskier would let Geralt press his thumb into his fingers, his palms, feeling the thicker skin scattered there. An interruption of the illusion that is Jaskier’s perfection— not that Geralt would ever call them flaws, not when they were formed by music and passion.

Now, though, healing is just coins passed across a table, a stiff cot beneath his bottom as some unknown healer mutters over him. Not quite caring, not quite careless— just someone completing a job and nothing more.

“The hand’s not broken but you should still be careful with it until the bruising goes away,” the healer— Mara or Kara or something like that— says, setting Geralt’s hand back down onto his lap. A stretch of stitches spread across his collarbone and into his shoulder, courtesy of a local griffin. “I’d suggest bedrest but you don’t seem like one who likes to stop. What do you take for pain?”

Geralt nods towards his bags and Kara— he’s sure it was Kara— rolls her eyes and digs through them, mumbling about witchers expecting her to know what they’re talking about. It’d almost sound like Jaskier, if only she’d toss in a bit more sarcasm or a  _ you great big brute.  _ But Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier’s words; he’d rather his voice, if he’s still allowed the option.

(he wants Jaskier’s hand in his, his body pressed so close to him they’re nearly one— so close that it’s all Geralt can do not to push back, to bury himself in Jaskier’s skin and sweat and hair and mouth and—)

Geralt looks up as Kara lifts something from his bags, her blonde eyebrows furrowed in thought. A pale pink cylinder rests in her hand. Geralt’s muscles tighten bit by bit, his jaw clenched tightly to keep from demanding she  _ puts the fucking candle back _ . 

But she’s not Jaskier and she won’t shake her head at his growls, won’t turn around with a hand on her hip and a lifted eyebrow as though to dare his pouting to continue. The space beside Geralt is achingly empty; it matches something inside him.

“My sister buys candles like this,” Kara says, twisting it in the light. Free from the bags, the candle’s scent permeates the air so strongly, so thickly, that Geralt can almost forget about what he’d done to lose the original owner of plum-and-wine breaths. 

Geralt shakes his head, clearing his mind of sweet smiles and intoxicating eyes. 

“It’s just a gift,” he says. 

“For or from someone else?” Kara asks, finally setting the candle back into the bag. Still, Geralt drowns in the smell of Jaskier. 

“Does it matter?” Geralt’s tone is clipped, harsher than he means for it to be. He hears himself as Jaskier must have heard him, impatient and unforgiving. His hands fold at his side, aggravating the bruises and cuts there— they grasp onto nothing. 

“Suppose it doesn’t.” Kara doesn’t give him the chance to wallow in the foolishness of buying a candle that smells like a friend, moving on with the clinical professionalism she’s treated this entire visit with. 

Geralt shuts his eyes, breathing deeply. 

He can almost pretend that the pained heat in his hand is simply Jaskier’s touch, gently reminding him to be kinder to himself.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Creatures scurry through the dark, too far and too small for Jaskier’s eyes to catch. They race through the forest— hares or squirrels or something else— and chase one another through the night. 

Jaskier rolls over in his bedroll, the last town a few days behind him. His left arm’s grown numb. He wiggles his fingers, wincing at the blood rushing back into the limb, the almost ticklish feeling of nerves waking back up even as he tries to fall asleep.

In the middle of this clearing— only just big enough to be called a clearing— Jaskier curls onto his side, breathing warmth onto his palms. He shudders but it has nothing to do with the night’s crisp breeze clinging to his sides. Another creak in the dark, another branch breaking under an animal’s foot— a rabbit, a rat, a bird making a nest. He shudders again. 

Sleep came easy, once, next to Geralt and the comfort of his muscles— his hands, his chest, his presence. Jaskier could shut his eyes to the threat of bandits in the dark or monsters circling overhead. Now, he's all too aware of just how vulnerable he is on his own— just what it means to be a bard without his witcher. 

Fear swarms into his bloodstream, overturning the quiet order of his pulse and heart rate. His lungs swell as he sucks in breath after breath— in one two three, out one two three. He used to tell Geralt to follow his patterns, to ease his breaths to the same slowness as his witcher heart. It was his one way to be a protector for Geralt, his certainty against insecurity. Now, Jaskier can barely calm his own panicked breaths. His senses have rebelled. He’s a victim of his own imagination.

Slowly, a glove freed from beneath his shoulder, pressed there when Jaskier had been too lazy to stand back up and set them with the rest of his belongings. He holds tight without putting it on, pressing it up to his face. He sucks in a desperate breath.

Leather and wood and warmth and barest hints of earth— the scent floods through Jaskier’s body, damming the blind fear from going any further. Eyes shut, Jaskier presses the glove closer still, until he’s breathing nothing but this vague comfort he’s bought. Even as he holds it, though, he knows it’s not the same. This glove— this scrap of leather and stitches— is useless without a proper owner, as pathetic as a musician without a lute. 

Still, his body doesn’t know the difference between fact and fiction; it trusts the leather as easily as if he’d been pressed to Geralt’s side. He breathes it in until he’s full to overflowing— and, then, he breathes in more, drowning his lungs with the almost scent of Geralt. 

Slowly, the tightness in his chest eases. Slowly, his muscles loosen and he relaxes into the ground. Sleep settles over him.

The faintest scent of salt pollutes the smell of leather and earth, the quiet slip of tears down Jaskier’s cheeks. His hand twitches around the glove. It’s only the absence that breaks him down; his blood carrying air tasting of Geralt into his heart, his lungs letting go as though reluctant to say goodbye.

Each exhale is nothing but an aching reminder that Geralt’s not truly here.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The pale blossom of the moon across the sky almost makes up for the number of days Geralt’s gone without a proper bed. 

He settles down in a forest a few days past the last town he’s left, kicking nuts and twigs out of the way before spreading his bedroll over the ground. Above him, a cloud passes over the moon— an act that would blur a normal human’s vision but, for Geralt, simply adds a new shade of blue to his sight. He glances through the woods, watching as a couple of squirrels scurry up a tree for the night. Geralt had never paid much attention to the antics of small woodland creatures but Jaskier used to jump at the slightest of sounds; naming the source of the noise was one of the few things Geralt could do for Jaskier during their travels. 

Now? He just turns away, grunting loudly to dissuade any larger animals from trying to come into his camp. As if the two swords aren’t enough.

Geralt sits by the dying fire, shutting his eyes and focusing on the sounds of the forest. The brush of leaves tugged off branches by the wind, the squeaking of some small mouse digging into the dirt. 

The distant hum of plums and wine, sinking into his bloodstream before he can recognize it for what it is. He gasps— a quick, unpredicted sound— but forces himself to calm as he opens his eyes.

Jaskier isn’t here. The thought’s as foreign as it was the first time he had it.

Still, the scent of plum and wine lingers, the tiniest threads of it winding through the air to knit his being into place. He narrows his eyes as if to see it. 

A foolish thought, of course. How many times by now has he held the candle in the dark, pretending it can be anything other than a collection of wax and manmade scents? 

In the forest, though— just Geralt and the trees— it’s easy to let his mind wander to what it might mean to have Jaskier so close again. Now that he knows what he feels— what he needs or wants or seeks— would Geralt act on those feelings? He’s just barely held back before, dim shades of dusk coating Jaskier’s skin as he prepared to sleep, stripping his clothing away with all the shamelessness he uses with everything else in life. Geralt’s seen him unclothed, bent to wash; he’s dragged his eyes over the curve of his back, the slightest swell of his belly. He’s breathed in the smell of Jaskier, free from the pollutants of his perfumes. He’s watched him at his purest.

He breathes in again. The candle’s stronger tonight and it stirs through his guts like it knows what he’s thinking. 

(like it knows how Geralt’s hands twitch in his lap, imagining the scar on Jaskier’s thigh from that time he’d caught himself on an affair’s window while sneaking out; Jaskier had joked as Geralt had cleaned glass from Jaskier’s skin, biting back a smile as Jaskier asked if he could pretend he obtained the gash from some clawed creature— but then the thought of cruel nails through Jaskier’s skin had drained Geralt of his merriment, tying the bandages a bit too tight before turning away)

Without thinking, Geralt digs the candle free. He still hasn’t lit it, too afraid of burning the scent away too soon. Instead, he simply stares at it in his hand, his gaze fluttering over the thing as though searching for more hints of Jaskier there. 

But Jaskier’s not here, and Geralt is not what pleases him anymore. All’s well; he’d look so nice at the coast, and the salt of the sea would mix well with the wine.

Geralt lays back, the forest growing around him as he prepares for sleep. He has no use for a candle, really; Jaskier’s more fond of such things, and this silly gift would sit well in a home by the beach. It’s a bit of a travel but Geralt can make it and, besides, he’s nowhere else to go, anyway. 

He hums to himself, the candle sitting on his chest as he imagines the journey, the arrival. He’s too tired to pretend he doesn’t miss Jaskier enough to chase him down. Only the weight of the candle upon him keeps him from rising to his feet and beginning the hunt now.

Fingers brush the wax. His humming vibrates through his body— purring, Jaskier once called it.

He stops humming only to part his lips. The candle’s air invites itself in, meeting the lining of his mouth— his tongue, his throat. Spreading across the roof, the ridges and valleys, the dip behind his teeth. It curls around a scar within his upper lip; the tip of his tongue reaches for it, aching to taste anything that may be something like Jaskier.

Of course, it’s not him. Plum becomes dirt trapped inside his mouth— harsh words and crashed friendships.

Another scar thrums within him— hidden, the only witness to his mistakes. It curves, jagged.

He breathes in the distant smell of plum and wine, and wonders how he dared to survive.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

When Geralt wakes, the candle’s scent has faded. He lies in place, breathing deeply to be sure. In— one two three. Out— one two three. He follows this pattern as he would any other ritual. His teeth click together on the sixth run through. The wind still carries the briefest threads of the candle’s smell— rich wines and ripe plums— but it’s not enough to sink into him. It’s not as potent as it was last night. How could one night have made such a change? It had been as real as Jaskier in this forest with him, a few trees out but still always present. Geralt had let himself pretend— a step away from letting himself believe— that everything was alright. It had been easier, though, in the dark. Now, the sun cackles at the emptiness around him.

He pushes himself up with a grunt, breaking down the camp with a nearly thoughtless ease. Packs back on Roach, her saddle properly placed on. Cloak wrapped around Geralt's shoulders, the candle held stiffly in his hand. His head hurts from the sudden clarity of the air, the intrusion of earth where there should be something sweeter. He turns from the forest, facing back towards town.

He has the time and coin to buy another candle. Just to last him a little bit longer.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“Fucking hell.”

Jaskier pokes his finger through the hole at the tip of the glove’s thumb. It’s not big enough for his finger to fit in but he can see the tip of nail peeking through, flicking back and forth as he scowls down at it.

“What kind of glove breaks so easily in one night?” Jaskier snaps, marching down the road. “If I broke down because of a bit of tossing and turning, I’d have been gone years ago.”

His finger wriggles further into the hole, pushing against the seams until Jaskier feels it spread apart. He yanks his hand back out, nostrils flaring as he glares down at the offending object. His mouth screws into what must be a permanent grimace at this point, his jaw tightening. It’s too damned early to be awake— too damned early to be stomping so steadily down the road he just traveled— and the echoing silence of the dawn emphasizes his point. He’d woken earlier than he meant, courtesy of an ant that had crawled across his face and left a rather frustrating bite near his jaw, and had found himself unable to fall back asleep once he’d seen what his pathetic grasping at gloves had done to one of them; in his squirming to get comfortable as he slept, he’d torn and scuffed a bit of the glove against the rocks beside his bedroll, the tiniest hole forming in the thumb of the left glove.

It’s not the first time something has broken at night. As Jaskier had packed up camp— sun still waiting patiently at the horizon— he’d thought back to one time when Geralt had rolled over onto Jaskier’s favorite doublet. Fair enough, it had been discarded carelessly near their sleeping area but Jaskier could hardly be to blame for his exhaustion from a day of traveling under the hot summer sun. He’d stripped as quickly as he could, falling asleep as soon as Geralt curled close next to him. 

The following morning, Jaskier’s shirt had a new tear at the right elbow, big enough for Jaskier to lift to his eye and see through— which, of course, he did as he complained to Geralt about the flaw.

Now, as Jaskier walks, he recalls how Geralt had mended the cloth so easily, each stitching of his as delicate as one of Jaskier’s poems. He’d said something about witchers needing to fix their own clothing and armor, but Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to pay attention as Geralt worked quickly but so, so carefully. Even still, Jaskier feels he can sink down into that place where his heart thrums uselessly, where words mean less than the things he feels.

Jaskier’s always admired Geralt’s skills— the expected as well as the surprises— and there had been something satisfying about watching Geralt’s forehead crease ever so slightly in concentration as he’d worked. His hair had been pulled back, tied messily and sticking to the nape of his neck, as he bent over the doublet with a needle in his hand. He held the tool as he held any other blade and, when he was done, Jaskier held Geralt’s hand as he would any other friend’s. 

The glove slips back and forth between Jaskier’s hands as he fiddles with it, his fingertips always brushing that new hole. Such a small thing and, yet, he’s sure worlds could begin and end in the places where the leather has torn. It’s a strange combination of literal and symbolic, the broken gift he’s wanted to give Geralt all while knowing he never can. Songs about overdramatized heroics and gloves with a rip through the thumb. Jaskier wraps himself within such things far too easily.

Still, he can’t very well wander about with a ruined glove in his packs. If he travels steadily for the next few days, he can make it back to the town where he purchased it; and it’s not like he’s doing this just for the glove, of course not. He needs a new songbook and cloak, besides. More rations for more traveling— never mind how little sense it makes to add days to his journey to purchase them. 

Sweat prickles at his hairline as the sun slowly rises a few hours into Jaskier’s travel. Gods, not even Geralt made them wake this early. He runs a hand through his bangs, wincing at the sticky feeling that greets his palm as he drags it across his forehead. Won’t be long, then, until his face is that horrid shade of red from exertion, his lips dry. His hands, even, show the faintest patches of cracking at the knuckles— though, he assumes that’s more from the biting wind than any moment of heat he can find out here. It’s why people wear gloves, after all.

“And he says he doesn’t care about appearances,” Jaskier snaps to himself, shoving the glove into the bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. He sighs, each step serving only as proof that he’s not half as mad as he pretends to be. Sure, he can almost pretend he’s free from his pining; but then he turns a corner, sees a hoofprint that reminds him of Roach. He’d forgotten how familiar the sight of boot prints and horse tracks had become in his time with Geralt. 

Geralt— the bastard, Jaskier thinks.

And, yet, he walks on to the town to repair the gloves Geralt never asked for.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ Jaskier _

The air around the shop is nothing but wines and plums, richer than any candle and more delicate than any oil. It’s only as Geralt steps into its grasp that he realizes how foolish he had been to believe that he could ever find anything quite like this. 

He stands outside the door, his body refusing to move as he hears a familiar voice inside, can see the familiar boot stamps into the dirt around him. Jaskier’s within the store, snapping about some cheaply made gloves, arguing about the price for repair. 

Then, all at once, the fighting fades into a huff, and Geralt only stares as Jaskier steps outside. 

For a moment, no one moves. No one breathes until Geralt, allowing himself to break, reaches for the candle one last time.

He can’t tell anymore if the scent has faded or if it never truly smelled like Jaskier to begin with. He brushes dust from it, watching as the dirt falls even as Jaskier’s heart rate picks up across from him— even as he smells the tinge of mud on Jaskier’s skin, dried and cracking, the proof of camping alone in the dark; is it foolish to imagine brushing Jaskier’s hair and clothes in the same way he cleans the candle, freeing him from the bother of filth? 

Through this all, no one says a thing. How could they? All Geralt’s feelings emerge from somewhere deep within him, the place in his chest he forgot he had until a stupid bard sang a stupid song and, somehow, proved someone might actually  _ care  _ about a witcher. Jaskier— the one foe to ever make it so far past Geralt’s armor.

“Geralt—” Jaskier, at last, the sound choked and awful. Gods, will he cry? 

“For you.” Geralt’s hand, arm swinging forward, the candle cradled in his palm. Jaskier’s head jerks as he looks down at it. He steps closer and it’s all Geralt can do to keep from holding his breath. 

Jaskier’s scent piques with curiosity. It soothes Geralt and, like Jaskier, he moves closer, burying himself in the warmth that is Jaskier’s presence. 

“Plums,” Jaskier says. He takes the candle gently, lifting it to his nose. His eyes flutter shut as he takes a soft breath in. Salt and citrus in the air, the smell of Jaskier’s joy— how dare Geralt ever reduce him to something as simple as plums? “It’s lovely. You really got this for me?”

And the answer should be yes, but Geralt’s mind is held captive by Jaskier’s eyes before him again, Jaskier’s tender voice. The answer should just be yes, but—

“I got it because it made me think of you.” Geralt thanks Melitele that he can’t blush.

Jaskier, though, can, and his cheeks blossom with the most delightful rose colors. 

“Oh!” He says, and only that. “Oh, Geralt.”

He doesn’t ask for explanation, but Geralt shifts his weight and offers one anyway. 

“Witcher senses,” he says haltingly. “They— People smell differently to me because of them. I can ignore it, most of the time, but then I saw the candle and thought— Fuck, nevermind.” 

He only just barely keeps from pouting, from pointing out how stupid he knows he sounds. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says again, and he says it with the twist of awe within the exclamation, like Geralt’s shown him something new and wonderful. “Are you— Are you trying to say I smell like this candle?”

Fucking hells, maybe Geralt  _ can  _ blush. Nothing else could explain away the sudden heat in his neck and face. “I’m saying the candle smells like you.”

Jaskier— Jaskier  _ laughs _ and a hundred happy bubbles of champagne pop across Geralt’s skin. 

“As far as apologies go, this is possibly my favorite,” Jaskier says— bitterness in the wine, too much alcohol over the fruit. “And I once had a friend offer to flog himself for me after drunkenly yelling through one of my first official performances at court. Gods, you should have seen him, he had—”

But  _ apology _ lingers in the air, and Geralt’s tossed back to that mountain as easily as dust off a candle’s wick. His stomach turns as his skin cools, hands curling into loose fists at his side. Jaskier rambles on but Geralt hears none of it— only his own harsh words last time they met, only Jaskier’s laugh and— and  _ how  _ the fuck is he laughing when Geralt’s been so cruel? How’s he talking and telling tales like Geralt didn’t ruin this, like Geralt still deserves this?

Salt in the plums and on the tip of Geralt’s tongue. Jaskier holds the candle in his hands and he calls it an  _ apology _ .

Fuck that.

“I wasn’t thinking of apologizing when I bought the candle,” Geralt says, cutting Jaskier off. Jaskier looks up, lips still parted mid-word. “It wasn’t— It wasn’t fucking  _ guilt  _ or pity. It was— Fuck, yes, I owe you an apology and I will give it to you readily but that candle— I wasn’t thinking about that when I bought the candle. I was only thinking about— I was just thinking of you.”

More words than Geralt ever thought he could say in one go. He takes a deep breath after, steadying himself, and nearly chokes on the sudden flood of plums on his tongue. 

Jaskier stands before him, unmoving, as if his entire aura isn’t reaching back for Geralt.

“That’s—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “Geralt, I—”

“Forget it.” A step back; the plums follow. “It was stupid. I should go.”

He half turns— stopped only when Jaskier reaches for his arm.

“Wait!” Jaskier asks, and Geralt does. “It’s not stupid, not at all! I actually, well. I just thought it quite romantic, you know, that you bought me this candle when I know you’ve no use for the things— don’t pretend I don’t know how they aggravate your senses. And, I— Huh, I guess I did a bit of the same.”

Geralt furrows his brow at Jaskier. “You bought me a candle?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jaskier says, but he’s chuckling lightly as he does. “I bought you something else, of course. Just, just give me a second to—”

A pair of gloves yanked from the top of his bag, leather and dark and too big for Jaskier, which means—

“They’re— They’re a bit scuffed, and there’s a hole in one, but I swear it’s not really my fault. I came to get them fixed but that idiot in there wanted to charge twice the amount for them. Twice the amount! Honestly, the nerve of some people.” Jaskier sniffs dramatically. “If anyone owes me an apology, it’s that—”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier blinks. 

“You’re—” He coughs, glances away. “I wasn’t going to bring that up again.”

“I know.” Because Geralt knows Jaskier and he knows that this easy joking isn’t all he feels. Geralt knows the slightest dimming in Jaskier’s eyes is his own fault, and he knows that Jaskier covers his hurt with casualty and laughter. He knows Jaskier deserves an apology, just like he knows he’d do anything to take the salty stain of tears away from Jaskier’s scent. “But I said I owed you one and I meant it. I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I shouldn’t have let you leave. You’ve been the greatest blessing in my life, and I was a fool to toss that aside.”

Jaskier’s lips form a small  _ oh  _ but, for the first time, he seems struck silent.

“I understand if you’d prefer to travel on your own after what I said,” Geralt continues, though the words are barbs against his tongue. “Just— I hope you’ll keep the candle. It can’t match the things you’ve given me but I’d still like for you to have it.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jaskier’s lips tip into a gentle smile.

“I buy you a horrid pair of gloves and you imagine I don’t want to travel with you anymore?” He asks— teases. He shakes his head, his tone growing more serious. “I won’t pretend your words didn’t hurt. After all our time, I’d think that I’d deserve better than to be cast out so cruelly. But I’d also think that, maybe, you’d know me better than to believe I’d refuse to forgive you. I know you, Geralt, and I know you’ll carry the guilt of your words far longer than I’ll carry the pain of them.”

Geralt grunts, eyes falling from Jaskier. “I’d hope for you not to carry pain, at all.”

“Well,” Jaskier says, his smile crooked, “we can do our best to fix that together, hm?”

“Together?” Geralt looks up. “So you will stay with me?”

“Darling, all you ever had to do was ask.” Jaskier passes the gloves to Geralt— the faintest hints of wine and plum cling to the leather. “The answer was always going to be yes.”


End file.
